


The Game of Power

by FranRSouza



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Extortion, F/F, F/M, Gangsters, Gen, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Secrets, Sexual Content, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FranRSouza/pseuds/FranRSouza
Summary: When Thomas Shelby met the beautiful May Carleton, he saw a tempting opportunity to be in a world bathed in wealth. She promised what he exactly yearned for; one important connection within her luxurious world.However, what the Birmingham Gangster would not have imagined that his carefully planned plans were going to drastically enter Russian roulette, a power game between the cold and golden London Clans.A power game in which he intends to win at any price.
Relationships: Grace Burgess/Tommy Shelby, Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 16





	1. •

♜ ♖

❝ You need to understand that besides power and money, there is only one thing that unites the Von Hohenzollern, Bragança and Ivanovich families; _blood_.❞


	2. ♜ Golden Ticket ♘

_London_ **_,_ ** _England_ **_._ **  
_9:55 PM_  
_May, 27th 1922_

**Royal Opera House**

**L** ondon is a city covered by the glorious wealth of those who know how to move the pieces on the majestic cruel board. For, the best players are those who have blood on their hands as well as in their souls. London is a city marked, touched and kissed by the coolness of the splendor of those who have the power to keep the game, to keep the Russian roulette spinning.

Greed is easily lost by the incomparable gold of old money. London is nothing more than a board and its players are just moving the pieces insensibly. Never caring about the consequences, after all, it is a risky game it is just audacious they can play.

The question is not who wins; but who stays in the game.

The bright brown eyes, with the right amount of hardness masked by delicacy, scan the room carefully. The place is a pompous display of London luxury, showing pride in subtle details, which only the wealthy aristocrats have. May keeps her eyes sharp on the large room, covered in a white marble tint, the Greek-style columns dramatically demonstrate the grandeur, as well as the meticulous details bathed in gold on the ceiling, which stands out as an elegant art form.

Even living among the exuberant wealth it can still be fascinating, however, she keeps her eyes wandering delicately around the room, looking for the only thing that can be much more fascinating than the place itself; two blue-coated ice stones.

For May's sharp mind, art is like a step on a ladder of privileges. Just one of the countless ways to possess power. A show of kind smiles and a false kind of appreciation. Everyone presents in this room, they believe they are in control of each other, but they are just puppets of other great players. However there are always those who seem to be in the shadows, never close enough to glory, but they are the ones who have more power than everyone else.

_You always think you're in control just to know that you've never been._ May shifts her weight between her feet in a failed attempt to keep her mind from wandering in dark thoughts. She feels the repetitive movement of her fingers touching the rim of the glass cup, reminding her of her younger years, of the way she felt anxious, of never knowing how to act, but as time went by she was able to learn; smiling, in the same way, everyone expects you to do, saying the right words in a polite and gentle way. Practice makes perfect, but May stopped practicing a long time ago. She doesn't consider herself more perfect than when she was still young.

For a moment her brown eyes meet the crystalline blue stones, which she longed to find and a seductive smile blooms on her lip, the bright red of her lipstick stands out on her creamy skin in a tempting way.

Her thoughts that once wandered between the precipice of the past, are floating through vast forgetfulness as the man in the black suit walks towards her with fluid elegance, almost like an experienced dancer, in which each step is controlled by his heightened confidence in his movements. Sometimes she wonders how a person can dominate the place he is in, as if everything around him belongs to him, like the radiant sun itself. He is the type of person who can fit in regardless of places as if everyone around him a pawn, his own cards in a game in which he is in charge. A game where he plays to win.

— This is the last place I would imagine as our meeting. — His voice has rough and sharp edges as well as his blue eyes.

She continues to look at him openly, her bright brown eyes wandering unconsciously on his marble skin, wondering at the touch she appears to be so cold. There is something about him, like a kind of magnetic attraction, something rampant without control that attracts everyone around him to the dangerous world in which he lives, or to himself. May can see the tormenting secrets in his eyes, a constant shadow that keeps him awake in the cold and long nights, but she can also see clearly; a man like him doesn't live in this world without even having scars on his skin and soul. Maybe that's what keeps you up at night, those countless scars that roughly embroider your soul.

— Is this a date? — She asks, making sure her eyes are shining for fun.

— You tell me. — His peculiar smile extends only in a half-smile and his blue eyes remain like two stones of ice.

There are times, like this, when her mind tries to decipher what kind of secrets torment a man like him. Are there ghosts that keep his mind bathed in insomnia? What makes a man like him afraid? But, sometimes she also asks herself constantly, more than she would like to allow, she spends time thinking about him, if a person like him has this emotion. Although, when you look at him, the only thing you can feel is fear. After all, the only thing that still has an answer is that a person like him has no fear, there is no such emotion in him.

When she looks at his eyes, that shade of cobalt blue, the only thing she can see is just intimidation, a shadow of this feeling that is embedded in him like a second skin, darkness that resides in his eyes. She looks away from him, much faster than she would like it to be, but she fears that if she kept looking she would get lost, drown in the frozen ocean. However, she would like to once only try to drown in his eyes, because maybe this would be the only way to know if a person like him has a weakness.

— You want to have connections, right? — She asks softly. — One of the countless ways is this.

However, she realizes that while speaking, an ironic smile blooms quickly on his lip.

— A theater? — His question is coated with sarcasm present in his crystalline eyes.

She ignores the mockery in him, as well as the peculiar smile at the corners of his lip.

For the first time that night, the impassive blue eyes cautiously plunge across the vast expanse of the room, dipped in gold, clad in cool elegance. He keeps his eyes roaming steadily on the occupants around him; the sparkling dresses, the dark suits, the wine glasses swaying in hands with gemstone bracelets, the murmurs of thick men's voices echoing along with classical music sounding softly throughout the venue.

While the music plays softly in the back of his mind, he ends up losing himself for a single moment in something he has always tried to avoid, but which, even with his greatest efforts, manages to be a much greater force, like a wind that brings his eyes back greenish blues, the lightest and cleanest sky in the morning in spring. He can see her dancing in that vast room in that red dress, the color that seems to match the slight smile on her lip. The music seems to play in her rhythm and for mere seconds he feels a hole, an emptiness being filled with a feeling of warmth that he always felt when he was close to her as if she were the radiant sun itself.

He allows himself to feel, that painful feeling that manages not only to fill his emptiness but to erode what is left of him, what still stands. Is it a bitter feeling, a newly opened wound that makes you wonder if she feels the same if she can feel that sensitive feeling that she left behind?

This thing can keep the night cool. That sour taste in which he should have heard her words.

_I warn you, I'll break your heart._

However, how would he know that the radiant sun could burn? How would he guess that it was possible to break what was already broken?

She managed to do that, to leave traces of broken glass, something that ended up being shattered.

— Do you see that man? — Her voice sounds distant, but he moves his gaze to hers, only to see the light brown eyes face the group of men in the corner of the room.

May's eyes are like whiskey, that attractive color that keeps anyone staring, and sometimes there is a selfish part of him that wants to get lost, get drunk.

— He's Ivan Ivanovich. — Her British accent resonates in his mind like a buzz.

The blue eyes stare at the man across the room bathed in the glory of gold and white marble. In a superficial look, there is nothing about him that screams any importance, there is no quality that makes him stand out in a crowd. However, there is something, a kind of pride that falls on him like a second skin, clinging like a second layer of arrogance present in his confident posture. He had seen so many arrogant men in his life, but the man a few inches away from him is a different type. His black eyes are two stones coated with unusual coldness. He is the type of man that people think twice before challenging.

— He is one of the best horse breeders, if I can be bold, I believe in all of London. — Her soft voice continues to wander between the space where the two are, filling with caution. — Most of the horses from that auction, where we met, are all Lord Ivanovich's.

— How did you meet him? — His question sounds empty, as well as his cobalt eyes.

May carefully observes that the man beside her, who at this moment has a glass of champagne in her hand with a lightness that only he seems to possess. His eyes roam with hunger all over the place, the hunger that stands out in his eyes is greedy, there is an enormous desire to _want_. These are the little moments when May I allowed her to wish that he would look at her with this same hunger, that ambition, but his eyes are just icy.

— I know his son. — Her voice floats along with the classic lyrics of the piano chord. For seconds, May remembers dark brown eyes like a cup of coffee. But this thought flies away. She doesn't want to remember. — Besides, I've already trained some of Ivanovich's horses.

May remembers Lord Ivanovich's black eyes; there was a facility of a proud glow as he walked showing his horses, but May also noticed an invisible shadow of nature that fell on him, a cloak of ease; a certain emotion of arrogance. A wolf that does not hide in the skin of a lamb.

— He's your golden ticket to my world, Thomas Shelby.


	3. Derby ♘

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — Don't tell me you want to start a war against Sabin? — Her question blooms with a mockery of joy that illuminates her face. — Americans are understandable, but Sabini? It is a dangerous thing to do. — her face that was once illuminated, begins to disappear, being only replaced by the raw truth that bathes Ivan's eyes. — A bold move.
> 
> A bold move.
> 
> A risky move. A war against Sabini can be extensive, it will do incurable damage, a huge crack in the fortress. Risking the pieces on the board when challenging Sabini is a bold move and the price to pay is very high.

_Londo, England._

_9:57 AM_

_May, 7th 1922_

**Epsom Race**

  
  
**T** he two obsidian stones, as dark as red-hot coal, examine the place, the room filled by people who have money, those who keep a city like London running, function in their glorious way. However, there is an invisible motto; those who have old money, the money they carry with their surnames and the wealthy who managed to make not only money but a surname for themselves.

However, in the midst of it all, in the middle of this currency, there are still those who have money tainted by the London underworld, the dark and golden world that promises a dangerous entrance straight into the dark sins that dominate the dark parts of the beautiful European city.

There is an emotion, which surrounds the room, that old feeling of anticipation of victory that floats through the air as a feeling that falls clearly on a race track. For Ivan Ivanovich, victory is a taste known on his palate, the expensive wine that is always in the glass in his hand, victory is like second nature, one in which he wears his suit. He would not be in the position he is in today if he did not have victory in his cold hands.

_A position that costs a lot of your soul._

Many desire power, but when they have it, they fall like birds against the hard ground. It is in this fatal fall that they never lift their wings, as they are broken by painful failure.

— I never liked that look on your face. — the female voice has a strong accent, next to a strangely beautiful face and brown eyes bathed in cold indifference.

There is a certain cool mannerism that falls on him, a constant indifference like a frozen, inert river, just leaving a brutal silence. This is what Ivan sees every day in the reflection, that hardness around his eyes dangerously, the only thing that keeps him up, that cold that runs through his veins as well as his blood. Sometimes Ivanovich forgets that this frigid look is a hereditary issue because it is the only thing he sees when looking into her eyes; this indifference makes anyone drown in her brown eyes.

 _A porcelain doll._ That was what he called her when she was still a child with deep brown eyes. Cold porcelain, fragile to the touch, but so unusual to look at, a little girl who kept the extreme need for silence.

It is in this silence that he sees that from a tender age she tended to this mannerism that demanded perfection. Even today it is the only thing he can see, never deciding whether it can be a blessing or a curse, but sometimes he fears it was a curse hidden in a blessing. Well, the way her shoulders are always straight and the smile always bright on her lip, the soft voice, the delicacy of her gestures or the lovingness that her face transmits. All of this reminds him of perfection, but also of the icy shadow that keeps her, like a cloak.

In the end, Ivan Ivanovich is a hypocrite, but only one of his character flaws; he may criticize her coldness, but it is still the only thing that connects them apart from blood. That mark of the shadow of perfection that touches their family, that unusual magnetism that makes them volatile individuals through their darkness.

— I heard some rumors about Americans. — he gets to the definitive point of why she is here.

He is surprised by her presence in this city. Looking good; he finds the woman sitting opposite him strangely, the same woman who wears her niece's appearance, but looks nothing like her. This stranger has the same eyes and the same smile, but the emotions in her eyes are lacking, because there is nothing but an emptiness that doesn't show on her lip, where an amused smile rests.

However, it is this strangeness of not belonging that justifies her reason for being here; it is like a shadow floating without anyone even realizing it, an invisible force.

— Business? — there is bitterness in her words. — Unbelievable. — she murmurs, looking directly into his eyes. — _Look at you_. — She raises her hands elegantly pointing at him, before sighing. — Everyone knows better than to challenge him.

The dark eyes look around, with that indifference that he saw in his niece minutes before, but the only thing Ivan can see is just loose threads, people that can be useful or that must be discarded. People who can see the cold steel that is present in Ivan Ivanovich, a man who all knows that defying is a dangerous sentence, a man who has more power in his palms than anyone else.

But even so, when he drinks his whiskey, he feels sour in his mouth because, these people can challenge him, they can get in his way even knowing what he is capable of.  
When did he lose respect? It is a strange question that hangs in his mind like an annoying buzz of a bee, a question that flourishes in his nights the haunted incessantly even when he is awake.

The bitterness that even whiskey cannot remove from his lip is the audacity to anyone who thinks he can take advantage of it, who can at least think that he can easily eliminate it from the game, like a disposable pawn.

— They still challenge me. — his voice still has the accent residue, the same as hers. — Americans may be small fish, but they are cheap like Italians, they are infesting this city. — a determination blurs your dark eyes. — Besides, Sabini seems to be gaining extension and territory.

The tinting of the ice stones against the glass of the glass, where the brownish liquid of the whiskey sways absently, is an illusory distraction for Ivan's apprehensive mind. Sabini is an Italian bastard, a calculating and dangerous man in countless ways, but these are just qualities that are present in everyone who wants the taste of London's underworld. It's the kind of quality that hovers in Ivan Ivanovich.

There may even be respect between them, but Sabini crossed an invisible line, a demarcation established with fragile caution. It began to infiltrate subtly, without drawing attention, almost like a light wind, a small stream cutting through the earth, imperceptible. But he became bold with time, with each movement his level of daring, mixed with the intoxication of pride, ended up strengthening in the golden city, like a weed, a silent fox.

However, Sabini should know that _entering the wolf pit is a death sentence._

— Don't tell me you want to start a war against Sabin? — Her question blooms with a mockery of joy that illuminates her face. — Americans are understandable, but Sabini? It is a dangerous thing to do. - her face that was once illuminated, begins to disappear, being only replaced by the raw truth that bathes Ivan's eyes. — A bold move.

_A bold move._

_A risky move._ A war against Sabini can be extensive, it will do incurable damage, a huge crack in the fortress. Risking the pieces on the board when challenging Sabini is a bold move and the price to pay is very high.

— He's keeping an iron fist in London. — Ivan sighs, the tension does not hover in his solid face but rounds his tired mind. — It is being difficult to maintain business. — He murmurs silently to himself.

The Italian bastard managed to grow up in London, maintaining tight and authoritarian control over the city that once belonged to Ivanovich's merciless hands. This bitter defeat has a taste of ash, an agonizing taste that remains to haunt him, even when the smoking liquid of the whiskey rips his throat, he can taste sour.

— London changed the last time you were here. — His eyes stare into her eyes in a silent conversation.

The last time his niece was here; everything was still different, but still the same. The gold-coated doors of the dangerous London underworld were still spinning calculating webs in his hands, for Ivan still had the power to move the pieces.

_The Golden Age of the Ivanovich family._

_But now? It is only the shadows of the former glory._

— Of course, we keep our names as high as the glamorous power keeps them, but we are losing our respect; people are challenging us more and more. — the calm anger of his words cannot hide the concern that surrounds his mind.

Every day Ivan Ivanovich feels a weight on his shoulders, a dangerous weight that sinks him into uncertainty. He feels himself drowning in the very darkness that resides in him.  
Sometimes the price for glory is high.

— _It is better to be feared than loved._ — His voice sounds distant, like the cool winter wind.

You don't earn respect for being loved. You gain respect for the power you have or fear. It is sometimes the case that people like Ivan Ivanovich have respect for both.  
There are few ways in which his world works, but sometimes cruelty is kind. Sometimes it is necessary to maintain the metal facade, to wear armor that should fall like a second skin.

— Niccolo Machiavelli. — there is a ghost that haunts her eyes.

There is a smile, the first one she offers him, which seems truly sincere. A kind of smile that brings to the surface the melancholy of the past; the memories of countless afternoons playing word searches or reading books in the immense library. A time she remembers is she wants to forget, a much simpler past, but still, somehow it is a knife cutting through its interior.

— You want to give a warning; Ivan Ivanovich is one of the hands that keeps the sinful underworld spinning on Russian roulette. — there is a tone in her voice, which reminds him of the same tone as his own; a metallic sound, a sensation of a storm that promises coolness.

— You will do. — he insinuates with words made of steel, with no room for an objection.

She knows that even if it were a question it would still be a demand, a command.

— It's not like I have a choice, right? — sarcasm drips from her voice, her empty brown eyes are filled with bitterness.

She asks, but they both know the answer; _there is no escape._

__

_ 10:45 AM _

Several things make him different from his father.

Magnus likes to think about it, as it is an uncomfortable way to pass the time, to illusively try to deceive his anxious mind, to try to convince him to focus on something other than his restless state. It is a very effective, but also painful way of remembering what remains hidden in the rubble of your soul.

The first difference is the coldness with which his father's black eyes seem to have, an unusual type of darkness, something severe. But there were still rumors that despite all the difference between them, the eyes are still the only thing that links them. Perhaps it is that strangeness, that coldness that fell on the whole family, like a cloak.

In addition to this coldness, there is something else they share; the ability to be a great observer. Magnus learned a long time ago that people are made of masks, of beautiful lies that keep them safe, that constantly feeds pride. _The lie in the golden world is nothing but an accessory. The truth is like a dagger slicing your throat without you even realizing it._

His eyes, brown as coffee, a dark tone even more so, scan the room carefully, stopping only in the subtle movement of his cousin and his father talking, the silence of their movements is imperceptible for the busy room, the coldness of the looks between them do not seem to cool the restless heat of whiskey and loud voices next to the jazz playing softly. Magnus, always considered his cousin's relationship with his father complicated; distant at first sight, cold at second sight, unusual at third sight, but at fourth sight, they are opposite sides of the same coin.

However, their eyes were supposed to look around, with amusement hidden in a charming smile. The only thing really to be seen is the money being spun, the bold move in betting. The room is bustling, not with bodies, but with voices filling the stunning location, covered in excessive elegance.

He feels the softness of the paper in his hand, as well as the softness of the fabric of the chair on his back and for a moment he manages to drown out the sound of the voices around him that begin to give way to easy and happy laughter, a memory that it was not touched by the present bitterness of the world in which he lives, in that memory; there is the wind, cold but still warm because the sun hits his skin like a lover's hug, warm. He can hear the laughter, the light jokes told between his brothers, Mikael's mocking smile, or Joseph's stunning laugh and Nikolas's scowl. There was still the soft sway of her sister's blue dress, the person who always kept a lovely smile.

But all this is just memories of a much easier time. A time before the war, before his family succumbed to darkness. They are memories that do not belong to the person he became. He turns his attention to the paper still stuck in his hand, which is blurred by countless names and one of them stands out _Lord Snow; Race 6 | Entry 9 | Owner Lord Ivanovich._

The beautiful white stallion that his sister and brothers helped to raise when he was still a foal spoiled by the sugar cubes stolen by Joseph, or untamed for anyone who tried to get close but was still tame in the sweet and childish touches of your sister. The snow-white horse, as on a cold winter morning, the little foal that once belonged to his sister, is about to run, competing like a speed stallion, one of the countless horses owned by Lord Ivanovich.

Magnus still remembers his sister's soft voice, when asked by their grandfather what she would call him, there was a jovial and innocent way in the way she grinned at her grandfather, a smile that can sometimes be rare on her face, but when it appeared it was like looking at the moon; bright. She had responded by saying that she would call him _Lord Snow's_ little foal. A horrible name, in Magnus' opinion, but he never dared to say it out loud, to put his thoughts into words in the wind, as his sister would get into arguments and a fight against him.

This was always a joke between him and his brothers. For their sister could get into a fight just to show that she is right. He doesn't like to admit it, but in a way, his sister always seemed to be right in almost every argument.

Magnus can still recall the painful sensation of his chin, the painful spot where he was hit by an inappropriate but still strong punch from his sister. He was lying on the wet grass, that morning it had rained as if the clouds had finally found tears to spill, his eyes were surprised, widened in awe, as he watched his sister's light brown, honey-filled eyes fill with water about to be poured like a waterfall while holding her hand, which was sore after finding his chin.

He never knew the reason for the fight, however, he always had the feeling that the reason maybe it was because he insulted her dress, or it was the design she had made. Honestly, he never knew, never remembered, but he remembers the strength of her fist.

At that time your sister was still a child, too young. But as he looked at her, the only thing he could see was that their father was right; she was like the ocean, sometimes tame and suddenly a storm.

On this occasion, still holding the paper in his hand, he wonders if Ivan allowed the stallion's name to remain because it is still in some unusual way he wants to preserve what remains of the past, from the rubble of memories left, more specifically those left by your sister. But he would never know, he never dared to ask, because somehow talking about the past is like having a knife pierce your heart.

— There will be two more races. — hearing May's voice is like an escape from his thoughts. — I am confident that Lord Snow can beat Sabini's stallion. — the excessive confidence in May's voice is warm.

A very welcome distraction for his tired mind.

Sabini's stallion, Maximus. Despite the growing joy in the confidence that shines on May's beautiful face, for Magnus, there is still a trail of mistrust, a doubt about his mind when it comes to this race. Lord Snow is a young horse in the races, having won only three races in the first place and none of them went against Sabini's black stallion.

He can hear her footsteps, even before he notices her. There is nature as she walks, confidence trained in her steps, an elegance that is often exercised, it is almost like lightness, a feather falling on the water, too soft.

— I would have my doubts if I were you, about Lord Snow overcomes Maximus. — there this voice, that voice that can be a promise of loyalty or a doubtful trust.

Perhaps if the snakes could smile, they would have the same smile on their cousin's lips.

— I see you are one of Sabini's many _admirers_. — when May's words ring through her carefully painted lips in bright red, they sound like sharp words.

A sparkling iron glow is seen in the eyes of his cousin. There is a joyful laugh, a melodious feminine laugh, which she makes seem natural even when her smile continues to be forced.

Her cousin's eyes shone dangerously, only to be disguised by the relaxed smile played on her lip. Sometimes, at times like this, while watching his cousin closely, he realizes that she reminds him of his sister. It is almost like a vague memory, a hazy shadow that she always leaves when he is in her presence. But, there is nothing about her cousin that makes her look like her sister, except for the eyes; the same deep, restless oceans, oceans painted brown instead of blue.

— May Carleton introduce you to my cousin. — Magnus' eyes continue to look at his cousins, observing the hue of honey, a sweet appearance, but sour when looked at more closely. There is no need to imagine the polite grimace that forms on May's milky face. — Duchess Dominika Petrovna. — there is a haughtiness in the way her name sounds; resplendent golden.

Dominika smile, a smile that slowly tears her face. Her dark eyes remain icy arrogance as she watches May.

— It makes me curious, Duchess. — the blurred eyes of a deep brown tint are bathed in interest. May has an unmasked curiosity directed at the woman who exhibits the same shadow that falls on Lord Ivanovich. — Cheering against your own uncle? — it is a rhetorical question, but May feels that this woman in front of her will answer her with a strong and foreign accent giving her an enigmatic answer that matches her eyes; deep, around countless mysteries.

Then before Dominika can respond, a shot sounds, replacing their attention.

The noise of hooves of horses blooms louder and louder with the joyful shouts of gamblers.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first long-fic that attempt to write. So be patient with me.  
> English is not my first language so I'm sorry if there are any grammatical errors.  
> Hope you enjoy it.


End file.
